


That'll Do

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explosion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are buried and Lestrade must rescue them. Can he do enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was right; shock was dull.

 

John was right; shock was bothersome.

 

_Get down, get down! John reacted without thinking, pulling Sherlock by his coat, and before he even had time to bite back an insult for laying a hand on that precious coat, they were both knocked flat by the force of the explosion._

_John hoped Sherlock had the good sense to close his eyes._

_He felt the glass piercing his skin, tiny shards invading his hair and face and arms and every bit of bare skin, burrowing in and biting._

 

Sherlock had been rather focused, pondering the case, doing what he typically did when thinking, scarcely noticing anything around him except immediate dangers. (And even sometimes not those, because as John would remind him, he saved him from stepping in front of a car more than once, and once he didn't. That hurt.) There was a tug on his coat, _John_ , and then he turned to face him, possibly to berate him for slowing him down, except that there was a whoosh and a rush and a shattering of glass and he was flying through the air except it wasn't flying it was falling.

 

It happened painfully slow. John watched it all, rather detached. John saw what was going to happen. He reacted without thinking. He grabbed Sherlock's coat, somewhat afraid that Sherlock would turn around and lash out for touching it, but Sherlock only turned his head with an irritated expression before it happened. John noted, detached, as both he and Sherlock flew through the air. He stopped noticing after he hit the ground, his head making a sickening sound before everything went black.

 

Sherlock's ears were ringing. It was endlessly irritating.

He recalled... John pulling his coat. Falling. Slow motion. Glass shattering. Glass piercing his skin. Pain. Some blankness. Now this.

Still pain.

He shifted slightly, trying to get his bearings, but instantly regretted it. Painpainpain. It shot up his leg and ran into every fibre of his being. _Right. There will be no more of that then._

So Sherlock just lay still. He breathed. He thought. And he worried about John.

“John,” he croaked. His throat was filled with dust.

 

 _Sherlock,_ was John's first thought after he regained semi-consciousness. It was rather pressing, so it was acceptable. Second came the pain. His head throbbed from where it hit... something. Something hard. What? He wasn't quite sure. And then third, again, was Sherlock, and if he was hurt.

He then briefly wondered if anyone knew where they were, and if anyone would come looking.

He then returned to thinking about Sherlock when he heard a voice call out for him from somewhere in that mess.

(And it was rather a mess, because John wasn't sure which way way up, except there was that sort of pressing issue of gravity, so up was probably up, but he had no clue of the location of anything else, including his limbs or Sherlock.)

And John oh so wanted to reach out to Sherlock, comfort him, make him sit still so he could check him over for injuries, but he was a little stuck at the moment, which he only realized when he tried to move.

And there was the matter of the dreadful pain in his head which was making it rather difficult to think. And his vocal cords seemed incapable of forming any sort of speech or sound, so he coughed in response.

It very much hurt.

 

Sherlock waited for a reply. He thought that he waited rather patiently, although given the circumstances, he had little choice.

John didn't make any sort of noise in response, and Sherlock was just about ready to call out again when John coughed. (Or at least it was likely it was John, as there probably weren't more people trapped inside a collapsed building.)

It was a bit of a relief to Sherlock, knowing that John was at least alive and breathing, and even sort of close by, if the echoes weren't messing things up too much.

Sherlock's fingers crawled in the direction he thought John was in. They searched for the warmth of the other man. Human contact wasn't really something sought out in every day life, but today he would have given anything for it.

Sherlock's fingers found something warm and dry. They grabbed on and held for dear life.

“John? S'at you?” he croaked out in the darkness.

There was a cough in response.

Sherlock sighed happily, which turned out to be a mistake, as it led to a coughing fit that racked his entire body, jostling his leg which sent painpainpain shooting throughout his entire body _again_ and he lost reality for a bit.

 

Sherlock's fingers had managed to find John in the dark, and they were wrapped around John's wrist when he began to cough.

But then the coughing stopped and Sherlock's fingers let go.

_Oh damn._

And John mustered the strength to manoeuvre his hand to find Sherlock's wrist, thankfully nearby, and check it for a pulse.

It was there _thank god_ and although it was a bit fast and thready for John's liking, it was there.

And that was the last thing he remembered, the beating of Sherlock's pulse, and then some more unconsciousness. (Not good when you have a concussion, just like he'd told Sherlock so many times before. But if Sherlock got to sleep, he wanted to too.)

 

Lestrade had been enroute, only just down the street when the explosion occurred. Thankfully, Sherlock had texted him his location, which was a relief because that was normally left to John, who hadn't made any attempts to contact Lestrade. (Somewhat worrisome, but Lestrade figured he was rather busy, keeping Sherlock alive and such, while still having a job.)

His proximity to the site of the explosion didn't nothing to quell the terror he felt when he realized that was the exact building Sherlock and John had gone into.

The terror remained as he shifted through rubble, calling out to them, hoping for anything in response. He focused that terror into strength, lifting beams and ceiling tiles on his own, all the while ignoring the calls from the other officers, then the firemen, who insisted it wasn't safe for Lestrade to be there. But he didn't give a damn about safe, not when Sherlock and John were still lost somewhere in there.

The terror lessened slightly when he heard a muffled cough, and dug out that spot to find a very pale consulting detective and his faithful blogger.

His fear was rekindled when he got a good look at both of them, Sherlock with his leg twisted up next to him, bleeding, bone protruding out of the white skin, both a shocking contrast with the blood. John was only slightly better, with his limbs seeming alright, but a large gash open on the side of his head and the bruising that had already begun all over his head and face.

They both had multiple wounds with glass embedded in them and were both covered in dust.

But they were both breathing, both of their hearts were beating, and that would do for the time being until Lestrade could get them dug out and into the safety of the waiting ambulances.

It would have to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had been unconscious, which he realized was a bit unwise upon awakening, but a building had fallen on him dammit and he was going to be unconscious if he wanted to. It was rather difficult to maintain that unconsciousness when people _Lestrade_ started digging him out of the rubble and jostled his leg. He'd rather hoped to return to unconsciousness after that, but then paramedics arrived and moved him on to a backboard, despite his protests he was fine, and he had to face that dreadful pain. Sure, they'd given him a line with some pain meds, but they barely touched it, only calmed the screeching pain to roaring, which really wasn't that much of an improvement. Not even that, but breathing was tiring, and it wasn't supposed to be that way, was it?

“Lestrade,” he slurred. “It hurts... make it stop. Where's John? Is he alright?”

 

Lestrade frowned at Sherlock. The detective was making incomprehensible noises, no doubt thinking that he was berating them for something.

“Sherlock,” he called to the detective, grabbing his hand in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “You're not making any sense. Just calm down. You and John are going to the hospital.”

Sherlock's eyes glowed with some sort of emotion that Lestrade couldn't begin to comprehend.

“Are you hurting?” Lestrade continued, choosing to ignore it rather than struggle over its meaning.

Sherlock couldn't nod because of the collar and backboard, but he made a little whimpering noise that Lestrade never wanted to hear from him again.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay...” he trailed off, glancing at Sherlock's leg.

_No wonder it hurts. Legs are not supposed to bend like that and they sure as hell aren't supposed to have inside bits poking out._

“I'll be right back, okay?” he said to Sherlock reassuringly, fighting Sherlock to get his hand free.

“Hey,” he called to a paramedic in a hushed voice, careful not to disturb Sherlock. “He's really hurting. Can you give him something for the pain?”

“We already did sir,” he replied.

Lestrade glanced back at Sherlock. “Really? It's obviously not working. Can you give him more?”

“That was the maximum dose.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this bullshit. “He has an extremely high drug tolerance. He also has a brother extremely high up in the government who would be very displeased to hear how his brother was treated.”

The paramedic's eyes widened slightly, and he nodded, scurrying off to inject another syringe full of medication into Sherlock's IV line.

Lestrade took back the hand that Sherlock had been clutching him with before.

“Better?” he whispered, noting that Sherlock's eyes were already drifting shut.

Sherlock sighed, and Lestrade took that as a good sign.

Still, he climbed into the ambulance with Sherlock, deciding that John would likely behave on his own.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sure enough, not even a whole minute into the ten minute journey, Sherlock started getting worse. Lestrade watched as the paramedic exchanged worried glances, then listened as they talked about things that meant nothing to him, but didn't sound good. Lestrade did know that dropping blood pressure was never good, especially when there wasn't a whole lot of external bleeding going on. He also knew that when the paramedics decided to shove a tube down Sherlock's throat to breathe for him was not good either. And Lestrade just sat there, clinging to the hand that was no longer clinging back.

After a tense ride, they finally arrived at the hospital, the ambulance carrying John just behind.

Lestrade noticed with a sinking heart that John had not quite behaved during the ride, as he was no longer breathing on his own. He shook his head. He trailed after the gurney, fully intending to follow Sherlock everywhere he went until one of the monitors attached to him started a long whining noise that could not have meant anything good. That caused a flurry of activity. One of the paramedics jumped on the stretcher and started doing CPR on Sherlock.

Lestrade hadn't even noticed he'd stopped walking until a nurse spoke gently to him.

“You're going to have to wait here,” she said to him before hurrying along with the gurney. Lestrade realized he was in a sort of waiting room. He slumped into a chair, feeling lost and abandoned. That only lasted until he spotted the posh prat that was Sherlock's brother. Then he just wished he was alone.

_Damn._

 

“Detective inspector. I believe thanks are in order.”

“Piss off Mycroft,” Lestrade muttered. “I don't want to have to deal with you.”

Mycroft smiled one of those smiles that he kept for occasions just like this one. Lestrade wanted to slap it off his face.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I'd rather neither of us be here, but it seems my brother got himself and doctor Watson buried under a building. I figured I'd come and see how they were doing.”

Lestrade snorted. “You never show up until they're out of surgery and sedated to the point where you can talk at them and they can't help but listen.”

Mycroft looked at him pointedly.

“Oh god...” Lestrade breathed. He'd come to the awful realization of what Mycroft's premature appearance might mean.

Mycroft smiled tightly, but there was no happiness in it.

He strode away, umbrella in hand to go god knows where, likely to pull strings and move planets or something.

Lestrade slouched in his chair. Being alone wasn't really that much preferable. He kept seeing the building, flattened, knowing that they were in there, and their faces pale and dusty in sharp contrast with the blood, and the paramedic jumping on Sherlock to bully his heart into working.

He shook his head, trying to shake the images out, but it didn't work. Of course it didn't.

 

He thought about John. _Perhaps they'll let me see him, he looked like he was doing better than Sherlock, even if he was unconscious. They weren't doing CPR on him._

And with that cheery thought, Lestrade set off to look for John.

He only caught a glimpse of him before being returned to the waiting room by a nurse who reassured him that his friend was doing alright. But John really didn't look alright. His face was swollen and bruised and covered in cuts. Lestrade suspected that his entire body was covered with bruises and cuts. His left arm was bandaged, and he wondered if it was broken or just being covered because of a cut.

He slumped in the same chair he was in before, feeling rather defeated.


	4. Chapter 4

John was enjoying his nap. The dreams were rather odd, but he was oh so tired, and it felt good to just slip away for a while.

There was something in the back of his mind that kept trying to peek out and make itself known, but John couldn't be bothered. For once in his life _no, not true, there was that time when he was shot_ he gave in to the darkness.

 

Sherlock furrowed his brow, intensely focused on observing the goings on in the room before him.

“Whatcha doin'?” John asked Sherlock, suddenly appearing next to him in the hallway.

Sherlock frowned at him. “Isn't that from one of those... TV show things?” he finished lamely, waving a hand around.

John grinned. “Yeah, it is. But anyways... so. How are you?”

Sherlock paused, looking genuinely confused.

“I'm not sure,” he said finally.

John nodded, entirely understanding what he meant, having no clue what was going on either.

“I think... I should be helping,” John said, referring to the code in the room in front of them.

“They seem plenty capable,” Sherlock replied. “I don't want you to leave me.”

John examined Sherlock. That was not something he's normally say. Which meant that Sherlock was sick, John was sick, or this wasn't happening...

John's thoughts trailed off, realizing the horrible truth.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly. “Do you remember what happened?”

“There was an explosion,” he replied, matter-of-fact, eyes not straying from the well choreographed movements in the room.

“Right,” John replied. “And we were hurt.”

Sherlock glanced down at himself. “But I feel fine.”

John nodded mournfully. Turning his head slightly, he noticed a familiar figure at the end of the hall.

“Sherlock,” he muttered, poking Sherlock in the side and gesturing towards him. “What's Lestrade doing here then?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then paused as he came to the same realization that John had.

“Oh...” he said softly. “So... who's that?” He gestured towards the room they were standing outside of.

“You, I think,” John replied.

Sherlock nodded. “Where are you?”

John only shrugged.

They were both silent for a minute.

“What do we do?” Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

“Go back I suppose,” John mused.

“What if we can't?” Sherlock actually looked frightened, looking at John with those all seeing eyes. It was unnerving.

John shrugged. “I dunno. But... go.... try?” he said, giving Sherlock a little push towards the body inside the room.

Sherlock disappeared into the mass of bodies that were scurrying around his transport.

A second later, John heard them calling 'we've got a pulse!' and was hugely relieved.

But where did that leave him?

He wandered down the hall to Lestrade, who looked awful. He was covered in dust and grime and his hands were raw and bleeding.

 _You dug us out with your bare hands,_ John realized. He felt a surge of admiration for the DI. John knew he was a good man, brave and considerate, but this was the proof that John needed to be absolutely sure.

He looked like he'd aged years since John last saw him. _When was that?_ John couldn't remember. Not a good sign.

“Do you know where I am?” he asked Lestrade, half hoping for a response. As John suspected, there was none.

John sighed and set off back down the hall he'd just come from. He was awfully tired, but it wouldn't do to just curl up in a corner of the waiting room and have a nap. Not at all.

He paused to peer in Sherlock's room. He could actually see him now, there were fewer people milling about, and John could see the extent of the damage.

Terrible open fracture to the left leg, chest tube, no chest _tubes,_ so broken ribs, perhaps some internal hemorrhaging, which would explain why they were prepping his for surgery, and a possible broken pelvis. This wasn't even including the numerous wounds with glass in them and the bruises that threatened to merge into one giant one.

John shook his head, knowing that Sherlock was in good hands, and moved on. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he sure as hell didn't like it.

 

John wasn't familiar with this A&E, and it took a few more minutes of wandering about to find himself.  When he did, he didn't recognize himself at first, that's how bruised his face was.

He was intubated and completely out of it, whether that was from sedation or a head injury was unclear. _Of course you're out of it,_ he told himself. _If you weren't, you wouldn't be wandering around in the hospital while you lay there at the same time._

John shook his head. It was all rather complicated to think about and made his brain hurt. Or maybe it was the head injury that made it hurt. He groaned inwardly.

 

He just looked at himself for a while, wondering how exactly he was supposed to... do whatever it was. Sherlock seemed to return to his 'transport' with no problem, but that was Sherlock, and Sherlock was.... special to say the least.

John finally settled for crawling into bed with himself (because he seemed to be solid, or at least able to make contact with solid objects) and tried to move as close to himself as he could. He fell asleep like that, which was probably the strangest way he'd ever fallen asleep before, and that included the time he and Sherlock were lost in Sweden... well, he didn't need to think about that. So he drifted off next to himself, hoping that when he 'woke' something would be different.

 

And it was. It wasn't so much waking up in the typical sense as it was realizing that he was no longer in that sedated unconscious state that was similar to sleeping.

And if it wasn't sleep, it wasn't waking up.

And it wasn't waking up, because he couldn't even do anything. Couldn't blink, couldn't twitch, couldn't _breathe._ Which was when he realized that he wasn't suffocating despite this little issue, so he was intubated.

He just couldn't recall how he'd gotten there. Hadn't he just been walking around a hospital? And Sherlock was there, and then he'd... gotten into bed with himself. His intubated self.

Right. So he'd somehow managed to get back into his body, which seemed to be an inconvenience, as it was rather useless.

_Okay, intubated, so they likely paralyzed and sedated me. The sedation has worn off, but I'm still paralyzed from the drugs, or it could be from... no, not that. Definitely not._

_Sherlock! Last time I saw him he was coding. They got him back... then he went to surgery? Is he okay? I need to go see him._

John's thoughts were racing in circles, dogs chasing theirs tails, and he felt himself getting more and more anxious.

He gradually became aware of a beeping that was growing more frequent. _Heart rate, increases with stress. Hopefully someone will realize that and sedate me or... something._

Soon there were soft footsteps amidst all the other noise, and there were soft murmurings that he couldn't make out, but were reassuring nonetheless. Then there must have been drugs, because he felt himself slipping again, back into that state that wasn't sleeping, but was not awake.

As he drifted off he finally became aware of pressure on his hand, and a single thought on his mind.

_But what about Sherlock..._


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade sighed.

The nurse had told him things about sedative drugs and paralytic drugs, and somehow he'd managed to listen to her, but not really _hear_ her.

When John's heart rate increased, Lestrade panicked, which he thought was entirely reasonable, but if Sherlock were there, would have laughed at him.

The nurse returned, explaining that the sedatives probably wore off before the paralytics, and injected more drugs into him.

Lestrade wondered if that meant John was awake for a bit. If he heard him talking to him. If he knew his hand was being held. If he knew where Sherlock was.

Lestrade hoped not.

 

After a few minutes, Lestrade left John, knowing that he couldn't do anything else for him, and pretty sure that he wasn't aware of his presence since the last batch of sedatives. He went off to find an update on Sherlock, even if it meant he'd have to talk to Mycroft to do it. But preferably not.

It happened to be more of Mycroft finding Lestrade than the other way around.

“Detective inspector,” Mycroft greeted him, still holding his ridiculous umbrella. (John and Lestrade had once speculated while out drinking about what Mycroft kept in there. Lestrade was still sure there was a sword, and John was convinced it was a new weapon that the government had developed especially for him.)

Lestrade shook his head, realizing he'd been staring at the umbrella far longer than he should have.

“Mr Holmes,” he replied.

“Mycroft, please,” he said, with another one of those smiles that meant an infinite number of things.

“Mycroft,” he parroted. “Any update on Sherlock?”

Mycroft shook his head, his face revealing nothing. “He's still in surgery.”

 _And yet, you could be in there too if you snapped your fingers,_ Lestrade thought bitterly, hoping it didn't show on his face. Knowing he was related to Sherlock, Mycroft probably knew what he was thinking.

Lestrade though he saw something on Mycroft's face soften as he looked at him.

“Sherlock has suffered internal injuries and the surgeons are still working on him. I've been told his chances of survival are good.”

Lestrade nodded. He felt Mycroft study him for a moment before continuing.

“I've also been told that doctor Watson has a head injury and is heavily sedated.”

Lestrade nodded again. It was about all he could do.

“Go back to him,” Mycroft advised. “I'll have someone get you as soon as there is any news about Sherlock.”

Lestrade nodded again, not knowing what else to do, and turned to go back down the hallway.

“Greg,” Mycroft called, almost... hesitantly. (Odd. He'd never called him Greg before.) Lestrade turned to look at him. “Thank you.”

Lestrade chose not to nod this time, just turned his back and returned to John's bedside.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite Mycroft's constant presence at the hospital, it seemed to escape everyone's attention that Sherlock had been a drug addict, and therefore had extremely high tolerances to many drugs. Especially sedatives.

This resulted in Sherlock becoming somewhat aware during surgery.

(This might have terrified anyone else, like it frightened John to wake up paralyzed, but Sherlock was too busy being fascinated to be afraid. Therefore, his heart rate did not increase due to panicking, and therefore, no one noticed. Mycroft would not be pleased when he found out. Because he would.)

Sherlock only wished his eyes could be open so perhaps he could see what was going on.

It didn't hurt _thank god_ which may have been thanks to an epidural or something else that his foggy brain couldn't quite wrap around. His chest did feel sort of tight, and it might have been pain, but he couldn't tell. He couldn't tell anything. So he just laid there (like he could do anything else) and listened. Some of it was hard to make out over the sound of the ventilator pushing air into and out of his lungs.

There were bits about the technicalities of the surgery, retracting and fixators and bleeding and traction. John would know what those meant. Sherlock didn't really care. They would be there to worry about later.

He focused on the nurses and anaesthesiologist, they were the ones he was interested in. The nurses were the ones who patted his hand reassuringly, despite thinking he was unconscious. The anaesthesiologist was responsible for the drugs and keeping him alive and breathing (doing a bit poorly on the sedation aspect, but it was hardly his fault). Sherlock could tell by the way he called out numbers and spoke to the doctors that he was capable. He's have to make sure Mycroft didn't ruin his career.

Ah, Mycroft. He was probably waiting in the wings, or watching the surgery from above like some sort of god. The thought made Sherlock's brain smile.

It wasn't a fool proof way to detect Mycroft, but Sherlock couldn't feel any of the smugness and power that he exuded from every pore in his body. Probably not here then. What Sherlock could feel was the sudden chill in the theatre. Wasn't that the job of the anaesthesiologist? To maintain his body temperature? Surgery would not go well if he was shivering. _Paralyzed,_ he reminded himself.

And yet, he swore he was shivering slightly. It must have been imagined, because none of the nurses who kept a rotating schedule of grasping his hand at regular intervals picked up on it.

Sherlock belatedly noted that there was music playing. Classical. One of his favourite pieces. Dinu Lipatti. It was somewhere in the back of his mind that John had told him some surgeons do that, it helps them focus or something.

 _John,_ Sherlock's brain screeched. _How did you forget about John? When did you last see him? He could be dead by now for all you know, laying here thinking about classical music and Mycroft._

He supposed that was what triggered his heart rate to increase.

He supposed the nurses looked at the monitor, wondering what was going on.

He supposed the surgeons wondered if he was about to crash, if they had nicked an artery instead of repairing one. But his blood pressure was stable and there was no desatting or bleeding.

He knew that the anaesthesiologist responded by peeling the tape off that was closing his eyes and shining a bright light in them. It was what Sherlock wanted, but it was too bright too fast and he didn't like it. He tried to look at the anaesthesiologist's face, try to tell him that _hurt_ and that he was getting bored over here and could use some more sedatives.

The anaesthesiologist seemed rather startled to see Sherlock attempt to focus on him, and swore. Sherlock was thinking more and more about letting Mycroft do whatever he wanted with the man.

His eyelid was rudely shut and he heard the man fumbling with a syringe. It must have been a sedative, because the only thing Sherlock remembered after that was how his eyelids were not symmetrical.


	7. Chapter 7

True to his word, (though how true, he'd never know) Mycroft called Lestrade to update him on Sherlock's condition.

“Yeah, hang on,” he said after answering, untangling himself from the chair to head into the hallway. “Okay. I didn't want John to hear,” he said by way of explanation.

Mycroft almost sounded amused. “Yes, of course. Sherlock is out of surgery and should be able to receive visitors in an hour. It seems that no one was aware of his history, and therefore he was aware during at least a portion of the surgery.”

“Aware?” Lestrade was rather shocked. _How did that happen?_

“Yes. I am handling it.”

And with that, the phone went silent.

“Thanks...” Lestrade muttered, folding his phone back up and returning to John's bedside.

“Sherlock's out of surgery,” he informed him. “So I suppose that's good.”

Lestrade stopped, not really sure of how to proceed. Sighing, he laid his hand on top of John's again, hoping that he wasn't being entirely useless.

 

An hour crawled by, and at the end of it Lestrade reluctantly said goodbye to John, promising that he would come back and tell him how Sherlock was doing.

Lestrade suspected that John would want him to stay with Sherlock, for obvious reasons.

Sherlock was in intensive care, a far cry from the room John was in, which was at least semi private. Intensive care was all curtains and part walls that let nurses keep an eye on patients. Good for Sherlock anyway, but awkward nonetheless.

Sherlock looked better than the last time Lestrade had seen him, but really, anything was an improvement over cardiac arrest.

But Sherlock looked much less pale than he'd been before, nearly back to his usual pale tone, most likely thanks to the blood transfusions he'd gotten during surgery.

Lestrade sank into the chair at his bedside, thankfully more comfortable than the one in John's room. He didn't know if this had anything to do with Mycroft, or if it was because it was the ICU.

He just looked at Sherlock for a minute, taking everything in. He looked worse than John, or perhaps it was just that he'd gotten used to what John looked like, that this was a shock.

There were multiple tubes snaking out from under the blanket. Drains and chest tubes, he supposed. Lots of IV lines, one going into his chest, the usual one in his arm, and there was the breathing tube in his mouth still, now joined by another one in his nose.

Some of the cuts had been stitched up, others weren't. There was one that looked particularly bad on his forehead, and Lestrade wondered if it would scar. Sherlock wouldn't like that.

Lestrade shook his head. _Like that matters now. He's alive. Anything else... it can be dealt with later. Much later._

But the most shocking thing was Sherlock's broken leg. The last time Lestrade had seen it, he'd been shocked at the horrific angle and protruding bone. Now he was shocked by the sheer amount of bandages and metal that were attached to it. It was probably done during the surgery _of course it was_ but... still.

It was some sort of metal contraption that must have gone into the bone. It was heavily bandaged. Lestrade didn't even want to imagine the pain it caused.

He reached out to the hand nearest him and hesitated before grasping it. He knew Sherlock didn't like to be touched, and really only allowed John to do it. _And he says they're not in a relationship... whatever._ But Lestrade figured this was a special circumstance, and while Sherlock may berate him for his sentimentality, it made him feel better.

“I heard you were awake during surgery. I'm surprised you didn't start ordering them around and telling them how to do it. Or deducing them until they got angry enough to let you do it.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose you were still paralyzed, right? That happened to John too. They think so.”

Lestrade thought for a moment. “He's doing alright. He's sedated. He's got a head injury. I think... I think he looks a lot worse than it is.” He stroked Sherlock's hand absentmindedly. “Mycroft has shown up already. Hell of a lot earlier than usual. Must have been worried. I can't blame him.” He hesitated, not wanting to admit to Sherlock how terrified he was. _That's stupid, despite being sedated, be probably knows._ “I... watched you die, you know.” _Curse this breaking voice. Don't you dare cry in front of Sherlock._ “Your heart stopped. You were technically dead. Don't you ever fucking do that to me again. You hear me?”

Lestrade noticed belatedly that Mycroft was hovering in the doorway (if you could call it that, doors aren't really necessary when the walls aren't really walls) and groaned.

“Mycroft,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Greg,” he replied amicably. “I've come to inform you that I must be off. Matters to attend to.”

“Of course,” Lestrade replied, rolling his eyes and hoping that it came out as sarcastic as he'd hoped it to.

Mycroft looked at him with a curious look on his face, one that Lestrade couldn't recognize. It seemed to have a mix of pity, and maybe sadness. But this was Mycroft Holmes, the man who was practically the British government, and he simply didn't get sad.

And while Lestrade was pondering what this could mean, Mycroft had gone.

Sighing, Lestrade turned back to Sherlock.

“I told John I'd tell him how you're doing. So... I'll be back in a few minutes. Behave. I mean it.”

He smiled a tiny bit, and patted Sherlock's hand before leaving it alone on the bed.

 

John was the same as he'd left him. Lestrade wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He settled on yes, like that old saying, no news is good news. Right.

So he gave John a brief report, telling him Sherlock was doing as well as could be expected, not bothering to go into detail about some of the more gruesome aspects of his injuries, nor mentioning his tearful conversation. He told John about Mycroft's appearance and disappearance, about one of the nurses, and how someone had stuck stickers on the window in Sherlock's room.

“He'd absolutely hate it,” Lestrade told him with a smile.

Lestrade went on for a bit longer, chatting cheerfully about a number of things that didn't matter, before returning to Sherlock and doing the same for him. He reluctantly went home to sleep at night, but returned in the morning to do the same thing.

He did this for several days, trying to convince himself not to lose hope as neither the detective or his blogger seemed to be improving. He just visited them and smiled, talking about things even he didn't care about, but seemed necessary to talk about.

On and on it went.


	8. Chapter 8

The next time John regained consciousness (if you could call the previous time consciousness,) it was suddenly, not gradually. It was panicked and terrified and not slowly becoming aware. It was waking up from a nightmare where you were falling to find yourself near to falling out of your bed. It was waking up, remembering that you left the stove on, or the baby is crying, or some other emergency that whips you back to consciousness rather than allowing you to slowly drift back.

And for John, this single panicky, terrifying thought was _Sherlock._

 

As fate would have allowed it, (and Lestrade did believe in fate, no matter how many times he expressed that belief and Sherlock berated him for it) Lestrade was visiting John when he violently regained consciousness.

One minutes Lestrade was telling him that Sherlock would be having another surgery tomorrow, and the next John was gasping against the ventilator, clutching at the sheets till his knuckles turned the same shade.

“John? John, it's okay. Calm down,” Lestrade tried to reassure him as nurses rushed in to see what the trilling alarms were going on about. John had enough sense not to pull the tube out himself, and instead waited impatiently, still grasping at the sheets, for the doctor to do it.

As soon as he was able to, although Lestrade could tell it was a struggle, John wheezed out a question that seemed to be more of a demand.

“Sherlock?”

“He's doing okay,” Lestrade reassured him. “I've been talking about him for days. Have you heard any of that?”

John shrugged; he looked rather confused and disoriented. Lestrade didn't blame him.

“Long?”

“How long have I been talking to you or how long have you been here?”

John glared at him.

“Oh, so now you're saving your voice? That's...” seeing the look on John's face Lestrade stopped. “Right. You've been here for... I think we're on the fifth day, they sort of all blend together. Sherlock's still in intensive care and he's going to have another surgery tomorrow. They hope that in a few days he'll be well enough to move to a ward.”

“Another?” John raised his eyebrows at Lestrade.

He mentally went back through his speech, wondering where that was.

“Oh, right. Yes, another surgery. He's already had two. One on the first day, something about internal bleeding and his broken leg, then he had another one yesterday for his leg again. Same goes for tomorrow.”

John nodded. He looked exhausted.

“He's doing fine.”

“Has he been asking?” _for me,_ was the silent implication.

Lestrade shook his head. “He's been sedated for the most part. Heavily. After tomorrow they'll start allowing him to wake up. I'm glad they've kept him sedated. I can't imagine what a pain he'd be if he was awake, bored and in pain.” Lestrade shook his head, remembering how dreadful the metal contraption on Sherlock's leg looked.

John's eyes were drifting shut.

“I'll go back and be with him, if that's alright with you?”

John nodded and Lestrade slipped out the door, leaving the doctor to sleep.

 

Sherlock was extubated that day, as the doctors had determined he was well enough to breathe on his own. The chest tubes had also been removed and Lestrade had been told his abdominal incision was healing well. He felt absolutely no need to check for himself.

So he just sat by Sherlock's bedside and told him about how John had woken up, and how his first thought was about Sherlock. Lestrade went on about what a good friend John was. He mostly babbled, which Sherlock probably hated if he was listening, but he didn't care. There were no protests. And that was good enough.

 

Sherlock's surgery the next day went fine, and true to their word, the doctors began lightening the sedation, which Lestrade both dreaded and looked forward to.

John had slept most of the time since he'd regained consciousness, and Lestrade saw no reason to wake him for this, especially if Sherlock was going to be a pain. Mycroft and Lestrade had a bet going about how long it would take for Sherlock to make someone cry.

 

Sherlock had been relieved of the external metal contraption in favour of internal methods of stabilizing the bone. Lestrade didn't understand why they hadn't done that in the first place, but someone attempted to explain it to him, and he believed it involved infections, but he can't be sure. He was a bit out of it then. Still was. When confronted with anything medical, he mostly smiled and nodded, clutching at the hand of whoever was being discussed.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock stirred more that day, and Lestrade waited anxiously by his bed for him to wake up.

 

The first thing Sherlock became aware of was the pain. He'd recalled there being pain before, whenever the hell that was, perhaps minutes or years, he couldn't be sure. But that pain was then and this pain was now and it was scientifically proven that pain _now_ is always worse than pain felt previously. (Or he could be making that up. But how should he know, he's in _pain._ )

It was a pain that seeped into every bit of his being, despite being located in his leg (probably, hard to tell, but that seemed to be when the majority of it was originating from). His chest hurt a bit, likely broken ribs, but that was a tickle compared to the fire that was his leg. He vaguely remembered the explosion- the pain had been there too, but it somehow seemed worse now- and the strange dream he'd had with John.

Somehow, he knew John was doing well. Probably better than him in fact. He had no clue _how_ he knew, it was one of those inescapably strange moments when he _didn't_ have an explanation for something. It was unnerving.

There was also some sort of recollection of a surgery. Which was unusual, as people were generally supposed to be unconscious during those.

Interesting.

_Right._

He'd have to ask Mycroft about that when he showed up next. Which was likely going to be soon. _Fantastic._

But there was someone here now, someone who was definitely not Mycroft, and not John either. John was doing well, but not _that_ well. So who did that leave? Of course. Lestrade.

Sherlock opened his eyes and shifted slightly, the latter turning out to be a huge mistake. If he thought the pain was bad before, it had intensified ten fold with the minute motion. In all the excitement, he may have let a certain... choice word slip out. He hoped Lestrade didn't pick up on that, and tried to smooth it over with another word, much more frequently uttered by Sherlock. And it wasn't even lying. He was absolutely, entirely, _bored._


	10. Chapter 10

Eloquently enough, the first word out of Sherlock's mouth was “fuck”, soon followed by “bored”.

Lestrade grinned at this. How typically Sherlockian.

“Hello to you too,” he said, watching Sherlock's face with amusement.

The amusement faded when he reminded himself that it was not funny, because Sherlock was suffering, in pain, and most likely bored. _But still... hearing Sherlock swear..._ he stored it away to laugh at some other time when Sherlock was not grimacing in front of him.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock glared at him.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Fine. So. Any questions for me?”

“How's the diet?” Sherlock inquired, eyes not straying from Lestrade's face.

Lestrade froze, not quite knowing how to answer that one.

“ _Fine,_ ” came the response from the doorway. Lestrade spun to see Mycroft leaning in the doorway, having appeared there who knows when, silently stealthy.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, still not bothering to look at Mycroft.

“I do hope you didn't destroy the career of the anaesthesiologist.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock somehow managed to sense it, despite ignoring him. Lestrade only looked on in amazement.

“Oh, don't give me that, you're so predictable it's boring.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again, still not moving his head to look at Mycroft.

In fact, now that Lestrade thought about it, Sherlock hadn't moved _at all_ since he'd awoken.

Mycroft seemed to have noticed the same thing.

“Sherlock,” he said carefully, moving into the room. “Look at me.”

Sherlock sighed. “No.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned.

“Oh, what are you going to do to me if I don't?” Sherlock asked sarcastically. “Lock me up? Take away my pain meds? Fix my telly so that it only has soap channels? It doesn't matter.”

Mycroft made a movement that may have been a frown. It was difficult to tell. Lestrade wondered if he used botox.

“No,” he said simply. “I am simply trying to determine if I need to call your doctor in to look at possible paralysis, or if you're simply being impossibly stubborn.”

Sherlock sighed, and finally rolled his head slightly to look at Mycroft.

“Happy?” Sherlock bit out.

“Peachy,” Mycroft replied. And he did in fact seem, peachy. Or as peachy as a Sherlock could be in a hospital.

With that, he left, spinning his umbrella around his finger. (Perhaps John was right about it being some sort of new weapon. Lestrade supposed that Mycroft wouldn't swing it around like that if it was indeed a sword.)

“What was that about?” Lestrade asked, leaning in closer. “Because it sure wasn't to annoy him.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Really. And you knew that because...”

Lestrade scowled. “I don't know. I just did.”

“Astute observational skills,” Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes as he said it.

Finally it dawned on Lestrade.

“You're in pain aren't you. You prat!”

Sherlock opened his eyes at that, intrigued at where this was going.

“You don't want to admit any sort of weakness, so you're not going to tell your brother you're in pain, and not paralysed.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “John sure was right about the sibling rivalry,” he muttered to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he spat. “Just... stay here. I'll go find a doctor or nurse or someone who can give you pain meds or something.”

“Really not necessary,” Sherlock said weakly.

“Bullocks,” Lestrade snorted. “Just shut up for once and listen to me.”

“If you insist.”

“Oh I absolutely do.”

As soon as he could tell Lestrade had left, Sherlock smiled a bit to himself. There was a reason Lestrade was the only detective at the yard he'd work with. He was not entirely without observational skills, which was rather refreshing in the policing world these days.

 

Lestrade returned with a nurse, and within ten minutes, Sherlock was asleep.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at him while smiling fondly. Sherlock was basically a small child, not wanting to admit they were tired so they could stay up past their bedtime, not admitting they were hungry so they could keep playing their game.

Sherlock required the same treatment as a child did. A firm hand and someone to set down an ultimatum.

 _John should have gone into paediatrics,_ Lestrade noted, once more shaking his head at Sherlock before returning to see how John was. _He lives with one anyway._


	11. Chapter 11

It was another day before John was allowed to visit Sherlock. Rather, it was another day before he could stay awake long enough, as he was still technically not allowed. Another 'perk' courtesy of Mycroft (all hail the British government *bow, bow*). He was still recovering from his head injury, and the doctors did not think it wise he be up so soon. John informed them if they did not allow him to visit Sherlock, he would get himself there, regardless of the consequences. It worked.

 

Sherlock was mostly awake for John's visit. He'd insisted on no pain meds since the last dose, which was quite a while ago, and both John and Lestrade could see it on his face.

 

“I'm rather disappointed that I missed the external fixators,” John commented on seeing Sherlock for the first time in what seemed like ages.

Sherlock managed to smile at him. At least it seemed to be a smile. A sort of grimace smile.

If john had looked at Lestrade, he'd have seen him looking impressed. Lestrade had been trying all day to get him to smile, or do something that wasn't wholly a scowl, grimace, or snarl.

But John didn't see Lestrade's face because he was busy reassuring himself that Sherlock was here, not dead, not entirely whole and unbroken, but not dead. And that would do just fine for him.

John did notice, however, Lestrade eyeing his non-broken arm clutching one of Sherlock's.

“Problem Greg?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I seem to recall when a certain someone held my hand whilst I was comatose. They likely believed I had no awareness and therefore, no recollection of it. However,” he continued, smirking at Lestrade, careful to keep his voice low as to not disturb Sherlock, who'd just fallen asleep. “I do. So. Problem?”

Lestrade only grinned.

“No problem at all.”


	12. Chapter 12

Lestrade still showed up at least once a day to visit them, despite Sherlock being increasingly whiny and John just being... John. A tired and pained version of the John Watson Lestrade knew so well, but John nonetheless. He'd just left John to sleep, and already was growing tired of Sherlock's childish antics.

 

The surgery two days ago had been a success, as far as he could tell anyway. He'd been extremely relieved to not have to look at the metal sticking out of Sherlock's leg, and thought it wise of the doctors to not have Sherlock conscious during any of that. They probably had different reasons in mind, Lestrade and the doctors, but he supposed doctors didn't have much experience with people who would want to experiment on things protruding from their skin. Of course, doctors in general didn't have much experience with Sherlock. (The ones who did tended not to last long, for one reason or another.)

Sherlock was now sporting a mountain of bandages that was called a cast, although did not look like any cast Lestrade had ever seen. From what he recalled, casts were hard, usually brightly coloured, and people could sign them. This did not count in any sense.

He worried that with all his squirming around, Sherlock would do something to ruin all that progress.

 

Finally, Lestrade just snapped at him. “Can you just sit still. Please.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Why?” he demanded.

“Because I keep thinking you're going to re-break that leg or something with all your wiggling.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Lestrade noticed he was much stiller for the next while as he watched crap telly and complained about it.

Eventually, that became too much for him, and he threw the remote at the tiny screen. “Fetch,” he demanded.

Lestrade glared at him, but did as Sherlock asked, mostly so he could turn the TV off. He kept the remote safely out of Sherlock's reach.

“When do I get to go home?” Sherlock whined.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “How should I know?”

Sherlock glared at him. “I do not expect you to know,” he growled. “I expect you to find out.” He continued to glare at Lestrade as he backed out of the room to go searching for a doctor, a nurse, someone to rescue him from the wrath that was Sherlock bedridden.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock scowled again. If John were here, he might tell Sherlock if he kept doing that, his face would freeze that way. There were two problems with that, one, that it wasn't scientifically possible, and two, John wasn't here. Did he mention that?

He'd just sent Lestrade off to find out about leaving this dull place, hardly expecting him to find an answer, let alone one he'd be pleased with.

Surprisingly enough, Lestrade came back with one out of two, as good as could be expected of him, really.

He took a seat in the wretched plastic chair before telling Sherlock what he'd found out.

“They're going to take that off,” he gestured towards the mass that was Sherlock's leg in what passed for a cast these days, “tomorrow and give you another one. Fibreglass I think they said, and then you should be fine to go home. They're pleased with your recovery from surgery and otherwise.”

Sherlock examined one of the larger cuts on his arm, one that needed five stitches to be closed.

“Fine,” he said, pretending to be uninterested in Lestrade and fascinated by the stitches. “What about John?”

“He's all good to go. They're going to discharge him along with you.”

Sherlock nodded. _Good. That was good. They were both fine, everything would be fine._

“Right. Good. Good,” he echoed.

Lestrade examined him.

“Yeah. Good. So I'm going to be off now. Need anything before I go?”

Sherlock wanted to scowl, wanted to snip at Lestrade that he was fine, everything was fine, absolutely, perfectly fine. Except it wasn't.

So he held back most of a sigh and asked Lestrade to pass him his laptop and plug it in, because the plugs were out of reach.

Lestrade nodded and looked at him with a look _pity? No, no, please don't let it be pity_ before obeying. He paused at the door for a minute. “I'll come pick you two up tomorrow and take you home. Just text me and let me know what time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded. Lestrade left.

His leg was aching again. His being was aching again. When was it time for the next dose of pain meds?

Before that thought even finished presenting itself, the nurse de jour popped her head in the room, seeming far too cheerful for someone who worked around the ill and the dying so much.

“Meds time!” she announced like Sherlock didn't know what she was there for.

Still she went through the whole routine with him, temperature, blood pressure, and the like.

He managed to not say anything, he as she chattered at him about John (because the entire nursing staff and probably most of the doctors thought they were a couple, and how it was so unfair that they couldn't have a room together) and he deduced her.

He didn't tell her that her husband (one of the radiology techs) was having an affair with someone, probably one of the patients he frequently saw, someone who was definitely younger than him. He didn't tell her any of that, so he considered it a successful encounter. He may have only sat there in silence while she attempted to engage him in conversation, but she didn't run out crying, and he got his pain meds.

All was well in the world.

“I heard you're getting an actual cast tomorrow,” she said to him. This was after she'd injected the pain meds into his IV, and he was becoming more tolerant of her chatter.

(Different dose or different drug though. Lower dose, he decided. Yes, that was it. A lower dose because he was getting ready for discharge. How dull.)

“Mmm? Oh, yes,” Sherlock muttered.

“Have you thought about a colour yet?”

Sherlock opened his eyes to focus on her. _Odd, when did he close them?_

“Colour?”

“Oh yes,” she continued, adjusting his pillows and sheet. “There are such a wide variety. Have you got a favourite?”

Sherlock frowned. “Favourite colour?”

She smiled. “Yes. Have you got one? If you can't decide, that's okay. We've got designs too. Footballs, camouflage star-bursts, all sorts really. They can even do stripes if you want.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock commented, drifting off into a drugged sleep.

“Yes. That'll give you something to think about.”

Yes. Yes it would.


	14. Chapter 14

“Definitely your colour,” Lestrade remarked with a wry smile, his eyes traversing Sherlock's new addition, a dark blue cast that seemed to match exactly the shade of his scarf. He wondered briefly if it was possible to get a specific colour for a cast, because if anyone would, it would be Sherlock. With a little help from Mycroft of course. _But he wouldn't... wouldn't he?_

He just smiled as Sherlock attempted to scowl at him, but failed miserably.

_Some things are better left unknown._

 

He drove them home in his car, not the police car, as Sherlock seemed to have an irrational (no, that wasn't quite true, after all he'd been through, Lestrade supposed it was rational) hatred for police cars.

It was quite a production. Sherlock's legs were long as it was, but seeing as one was now unable to bend just made it that much more difficult.

Sherlock ended up being sprawled across the entire backseat, despite protests that he should be the one in the front, and not John.

“And how do you expect to fit like that?” Lestrade had asked him, looking pointedly at the leg space the front seat had and back to Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock scowled in response and that was settled. He sulked in silence all the way home.

 

Sherlock seemed to perk up a bit when they arrived back at Baker street, probably because he realized he'd have to get up the steps to their second floor flat somehow.

“No,” John said flatly, seeing the glint in Sherlock's eye that meant he was plotting something. “You are not hopping up all those steps.”

Sherlock looked at him innocently. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Oh, I don't know. Perhaps living with you for the past year and a half.”

“And how do you propose I get up there then?” Sherlock pointed out. “You can't do it, your arm is broken and you're still recovering from a serious head injury.”

Lestrade coughed. He smiled at them weakly when they both looked over, like they were surprised to see him there.

“Hey. I have an idea.”

Sherlock scowled.

 

Lestrade had to admit, it had been a little awkward giving the detective a piggyback ride up the stairs, especially taking care not to hit his head or outstretched leg on anything as he navigated up the small stairwell.

Out of breath at the top, Lestrade waited for John to unlock the door before he unceremoniously, but gently, dropped Sherlock onto the couch. Looking at the detective, who would of course never admit it, Lestrade could tell he was in pain and exhausted. He retrieved the bottle of pills from one of the many bags John had been forced to carry up the stairs (along with crutches) and threw it to Sherlock.

“Take one,” Lestrade ordered him.

Sherlock smirked. “Sure this isn't a trick drugs bust?”

“Course not,” Lestrade replied. “Need something to drink?”

Sherlock shook his head and swallowed the pill dry.

“Need anything else?” he asked John more than Sherlock.

John paused for a moment before shaking his head. “No. But thanks for everything.”

Lestrade nodded, fully aware of what _everything_ entailed.

“Now listen,” he said forcefully, turning back to Sherlock. “You need to let John rest. And despite what you may think, you need to rest as well. I'll be back tomorrow to check up on you and bring some things to keep Sherlock entertained, but I will withhold them if I determine they won't be beneficial to your health.” Sherlock scowled, but Lestrade continued. “So I will be informing Mrs Hudson of this, and giving her my number as well as the number of a certain government official. I've told her not to hesitate if she thinks anything is going on that is not in both of your best interests. Got it?”

Lestrade looked between John and Sherlock, the latter scowling fiercely from the couch and John nodding in thanks.

“Great. See you tomorrow, and if you need anything, just text me.”

Before he was even down the stairs, he heard Sherlock begin furtively whispering at John.

He smiled, and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door.

 

Lestrade returned the next day on the pretence of bringing Sherlock some cases to work on and other such things, but all knew he was really there more to babysit than anything else. He felt bad for John, who was still recovering from injuries of his own, and on top of that had to deal with an essentially immobile Sherlock who had been given long weapons before being discharged from the hospital. The doctors called them crutches, but a rose by any other name...

Lestrade didn't even bother ringing, just let himself in. He could hear the bickering from the bottom of the stairs. Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her door just as Lestrade started up the stairs.

“Oh, good luck dearie,” she said to him. Lestrade nodded in reply.

 

Lestrade stood just outside the door to the flat, listening for a moment.

“No Sherlock, you cannot do an experiment to test how waterproof fibreglass is. At least not while it's still on your leg!”

Lestrade suspected Sherlock made a rude gesture, or at the very least, a face, because John responded in turn.

“No, no, don't give me that. God help me I will call Mycroft and take him up on his offer.”

Silence for a moment, then quietly, Sherlock responded. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Oh yes I would.” John sounded extremely smug.

Sherlock sighed loudly, probably louder than usual.

“Come in Lestrade!”

Shrugging, Lestrade pushed open the door and nodded to the both of them, Sherlock perched on the couch with his leg propped up on a pillow, John in his chair looking exhausted.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned. “No experiments with your cast. Or any experiments really.” He threw the files onto the already cluttered table. “Here. Old case files. Thought they'd keep you busy.”

Sherlock glanced at the files and back up at Lestrade.

“I can't reach them,” he spat.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in an amused way. “Really? Oh dear. Perhaps if you asked John nicely, he'd fetch them for you.”

“John.” He looked at him expectantly. John only looked back.

Sherlock sighed. “Please.”

Smirking, John got up and passed one of the files to Sherlock. He flipped it open and scowled at the pictures. _(Lestrade knew that Anderson had been on forensics for that one, and settled in for an afternoon of complaints about picture quality and general incompetence.)_

“Lestrade. Tea.”

He didn't move and looked at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and added “ _please_ ” in a way that meant he really didn't mean it.

“Of course.”

 

Lestrade was pleased with how things had turned out. Not perfect, but then, nothing in life really was, but it was good enough for him. It would do.

 _Yes,_ he thought as he smiled to himself, watching Sherlock and John bickering, the latter holding up a certain skull, and the former threatening him with a crutch. _That'll do._


End file.
